The Midnight Art of Finnigan's Table
by Nyruserra
Summary: If life had ever bothered to ask his opinion on it, being an artist wouldn’t have even made his short list, let alone a discussion on Things Seamus’d End Up Doing.Of course, Hermione Granger would've be a close second for things not appearing on that list


**The Midnight Art at Finnigan's Table**  
-..-

If life had ever bothered to ask his opinion on it, being an artist wouldn't have even made his short list, let alone a discussion on _Things Seamus'd End Up Doing._

Of course, Hermione Granger would be a close second for things he wouldn't have imagined would be on that list.

They'd met up again after the war, during that mad period of rebuilding that had consumed the survivors, somehow seeming to provide an outlet for all the messed up things they were feeling. They were unlikely friends at best, confusing Ron and Harry, and even Dean, who was perhaps the only other person alive, besides Hermione, that knew he wasn't about as shallow as three day old milk mould. But somehow, they'd hit everything just right that day, and a chance run in at Slug & Jiggers Apothecary had become lunch at the Leaky, and dinner and various outings about once a week since.

When, about six months in, tension he hadn't even been aware of had abruptly snapped and he'd suddenly found himself with a lap full of soft brunette witch, his sofa had become the first of many shockingly passionate and desperate physical encounters.

He still couldn't figure it out, and it had been over a year and half now - hell he wasn't _good_ at figuring things out, being far more comfortable with instinct and flying by the seat of his pants to making plans, or even thinking about things too closely. It had become a very satisfying physical relationship on top of their already brilliant friendship – often spending time together at the pub playing darts, or even going to a midnight art festival once in London, with living sculptures of people in funny costumes on the lawns; or even nothing but blue paint, which had contrasted nicely with Hermione's blush…. At least, he would have expected her to blush, instead of shocking him by watching analytically and making cool comparisons to other compositions he'd never bloody heard of. But somehow, he'd had fun despite his disgruntlement, getting his hands mucky in the basement of one of the galleries, where someone had set up blocks of wet clay for a lark, and he'd presented Hermione with a rather lopsided shamrock; being sure to smear some of the slip on her nose, of course, and accepted her equally wobbly looking otter in return.

The fact that it still sat on his night stand, or that he'd seen his shamrock hurriedly hidden behind some books when he'd been over, meant nothing he would allow himself to explore.

But it was comfortable, like hanging-out-with-Dean comfortable – not that he'd ever been quite so close to Dean, thank you very much, and definitely wasn't anything like his complicated and supposedly-serious relationship he'd had with Lavender. He didn't want to complicate it – he valued the ease they had, the casual label-less non-responsibility where there was no jealous phone calls when he hadn't been round for a few days, or sudden demands that he drop his plans to have the blokes over for Guinness and pizza, and loud sports on the tellie for some new musical, tea at Madame Puddifoot's or some other rubbish.

Frustratingly, lately he was beginning to suspect he wasn't sure if he didn't want a few of those complications – though with Hermione, it would probably be visits to obscure bookstores, rather than perfumed tea shops – and thought he was crazy for even considering it. And then there was the fact that Hermione might not want complications either, and he would really bollocks things up by trying it, and maybe that thought scared him more than a little, too.

Perhaps Dean was right, and he should start looking for a hobby.

But his relationship with Hermione wasn't one that needed formality or open acknowledgements, though he wasn't sure why that bothered him lately. It was one that frequently saw her round his because he cooked better than she did — though he knew she was loath to admit being so bad at something so simple, so he disguised it early on by claiming a love of experimenting, and his need for a willing victim. He'd never cooked Thai before, or Indian - or Russian for that matter, usually making do with a handful of leftovers, or whatever he could come up with for a half bowl of chilli, an only slightly dried out bit of cheese and a half-dead bag of carrots, but as far as his witch now knew, he had always been a great fusion chef in his spare time. He'd come to enjoy it as their Friday night ritual after a long week of Ministry work for Hermione.

He'd often be down at his studio at ungodly hours, finding that, just to spite his fondness for lying in, his thoughts and ideas flowed easier in the steely light of dawn, and somehow everything was able to narrow down to just him and the clay, and there was nothing interrupting the conduit from his brain to the ends of his fingers, so if he was lucky, Saturdays, would sometimes see Hermione having spent the night, and up at 4:30 with him, cup of strong tea and breakfast of yogurt and a banana, or similar (what she grumpily referring to as the limit of her culinary skills) set out at the small table by the window, waiting for him. She'd sit with him, curled up in her chair and in his bathrobe, as she gamely kept him company with eyes that were only half open while he ate.

He frowned; Hermione hadn't really been round like that in weeks.

Actually, over the course of her visits, she'd grown even more distracted, and would often stare at him, when she thought he wasn't watching, with a look of … well, he wasn't sure, but a _look_ in her eyes, anyway.

It was probably just stress from work.

_Please, _let it be stress from work

-..-

The studio was a basement under an old building in the centre of town. Upon first glance, or even second, it probably wouldn't strike anyone as particularly inspiring. The walls were stone, and it was cool, even in the height of summer, and downright frigid in winter, so that Seamus was often down there in three sweaters and every horrible pair of long-johns his mother had ever sent him, and even the warming charms he used weren't strong enough to take the frost out of the air completely, but Seamus loved it.

The kiln was set up in a separate room, and he ran it as often as possible when it was cold like this. The whole place smelled earthy and primitive, and spoke to something in his soul that still remembered peat bogs and a boyhood home surrounded by fresh tilled land, and it was the perfect place to just stop and think, hoping that something in the atmosphere might make things with Hermione as transparent and obvious as it did for his creative impulses.

She didn't stay over as much anymore, and he was surprised to discover that he was no longer happy waking alone when the sheets didn't even hold a residual of her warmth. Was she getting tired of him? He had been shocked to discover that it bothered him that she might. It more than bothered him – he was downright _scared_.

And that realization should have sent him running in the other direction; it always had before. Merlin, after the train-wreck that was him and Lavender, even the thought of disturbing his comfortable relationship with Hermione should scare him.

But it didn't. Instead it made him think of things like what his room might look like if her stuff was all mixed in with his, and she started changing things a bit, maybe taking down some of his football posters, or the really tacky beer-keg lamp he and Dean had made one drunken evening, commemorating Dean's engagement to Alicia Spinnet. It made him wonder if he should maybe get a bigger coffee table, so she could leave a few books lying around, and if he was okay with having Kneazle fur on his sofa, and if maybe it was alright to find products of a _feminine_ nature in his vanity, even early in the morning when he wasn't expecting it.

The light in the studio was just beginning to turn warm, heralding the day was well and truly broken, and Seamus was just starting to think about packing up his glazes and pigments and putting things to rights on the racks of bisques and greenware when he became aware of her presence.

"Seamus."

He hated that she'd found him at all when the look in her eyes told him too many things already, but he especially hated that it would happen here. He hated that she stopped just out of his reach, where once she would have stood close enough for him to playfully draw her onto his lap; had done a few times, where he had guided her hands through the half-formed clay, the sensual feeling of it wetly sliding and slipping through their combined fingers arousing to them both.

"We have to stop."

She didn't bother to pretend that this wasn't going to be a shock, or upset him, for which he was thankful; she was too honest for that.

"Be the thunderin' Jaysus, Hermione, what's got ye goin' so early?" Instead, it seemed _he_ was the dishonest one. He wasn't going to acknowledge what her words really meant – not without forcing her to_ make_ him see it, as if drawing out the hurt could somehow fill the void with masochistic satisfaction.

"Not _we _then, Seamus – me. I have to stop this. This isn't – I'm not angry with you, but this can't continue. I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry_. Sorry for what exactly? Sorry for being so cold and distant when delivering that blow? Sorry for being something he was beginning to need as much as Quidditch and boy's nights and fine whiskey, combined?, Sorry for beginning to change the person he had been, for not putting up with his nonsense and being the first to put him in his place when he deserved it?

Sorry for making him love her?

_Shite_. He did. Love her, that was, and she was already leaving the studio and half way out into the snow-swirled patch of yard – and he just watched her go with everything in shreds around his ankles.

Why? Had she been aware of his changed feelings before he was, and didn't want a greater commitment? Somehow it wouldn't surprise him if she did know these things ahead of him – she was the smartest witch of her age after all, and probably much cleverer than him when it came to sticky stuff like emotions and relationships. Apparently she just wanted to let him go easily, before he could say something that would be sure to make everything all arseways, and that would force her to reject him. He should probably be thankful that she was trying to be so kind, before he took them across that line that would guarantee there would be no hope of salvaging even their friendship, ever again.

Feck, he didn't _want_ it nice and clean. The way he was burning right now, he wanted to go and shout and rant and let her know exactly how he was _feeling_, as if he could somehow overwhelm her reluctance with his own noise. Nice display that would be, wouldn't it?

It was somewhere just north of midnight when he finally struggled home, venturing into his kitchen and knowing what he'd find; she was sitting at the table, staring intently into the warped reflections in the copper pans. She must have heard him come in, but she didn't move, her head still resting on one hand, waiting. He a horrible numbness in his stomach at this, realising she knew him so well and somehow knowing he'd be ableto _listen_ now.

He slid into one of the high standing chairs beside her, absently rubbing the fresh splits on his knuckles; and careful not to let his leg brush up against hers, as he would normally do, he waited.

"I already told you how I feel, Seamus. Just let it go – let _me_ go. I'm sure after a suitable period, we may even try being friends again."

"But not like now." Merlin, he sounded like a spoiled child; he wanted to let her go gracefully, he wanted to at least not make her leave with a bad taste in her mouth so that even the memory of them was tainted with it. He wanted to at least comfort himself with knowing she looked back on them fondly. _That had been the whole point of staying away so long, ye feckwit._

She laughed; a derisive and tired sound that twisted something in his gut. She'd thought about this long and hard, then, and he had little chance of changing her mind. "No, Seamus - not like now."

"No, damnit." Her memory of him be damned; he was angry, and fecking well not going to just let her so casually set him aside. He didn't like how it felt at all that she could even consider it, when he was beginning to think seriously about things like _forever_, surrounded by the smell of paper and ink on her skin.

She made a very _Hermione_ sound, a common one during the past two years; equal parts amusement and exasperation, and he ached for the familiarity of it. "Shay, you can't just prevent change because you want to. I've enjoyed being with you, and I'll always be fond of you, but I can't continue this. It's not fair to me to try and make it other than what it is. It's not fair to you, either."

"Then make me understand! It can't be more space ye're needing, because ye all but avoid me now; so what is it, Hermione? I thought we had a good arrangement going – that ye were enjoying my company." He'd blown it, but it felt good to vent some of his frustration. If they were going to be quits anyway, they might as well be well and truly broken. Maybe then he'd stop feeling so empty inside.

She wasn't even going to fight with him, but realised that she'd have to give him _something_. "That's just it, Seamus. You do understand; but not enough. You know me probably better than just about anyone, but there's no room in your life for _me_."

-..-

It took weeks, but she seemed determined to force things back like they were, before they'd first decided on their 'arrangement'. She'd started coming round again, and even grudgingly agreed accompany him to the pub one night, but only because Ron and Dean would be there too.

She resisted any and all attempts he made to talk to her about_ them_, his overtures never seeming to be the right ones to get through to her in the few words he would manage to get in before she would shut him down, threatening to avoid him altogether if he couldn't behave. Frankly, he was sick of behaving. It had taken him days to realize it, but he finally got what she'd been trying to say; at least he hoped he understood, because if he didn't he felt he might just crack under the strain of_ trying_ to be whatever it was she needed, if only she would just come back to him and make him feel like he was the luckiest bastard alive again.

He'd managed to convince her to let him drag her around the antique markets, because he knew she loved old pieces like that. He could tell she was reluctant to go, but was stubbornly holding on to the friendly distance she'd erected to keep them both 'safe' and so she didn't want to outright refuse, and Seamus wasn't above playing her against herself like that to get what he wanted right now.

Ostensibly, he was looking for a rocking chair – his sister was expecting her first, and he'd be damned if she wasn't going to have the biggest, comfiest, most proper-supporting one ever made; though he shuddered back from thinking about things like nursing and his sister in conjunction with each other. What it did do, of course, was provide the perfect opportunity; and careful observation when Hermione though he wasn't looking gave him what he'd _really_ hoped, and he left her at her door that evening feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

When she came round again, it was almost ten days later, and for a while Seamus wasn't sure he was going to make it. His bed was cold, his pillow no longer smelled like her and he was damned sure this was the last effort he could make before he drove himself mad.

It was Thursday; she no longer came by on Fridays, always making sure she was too busy and had a ready excuse when he asked. He'd poured the wine, a chablis that she favoured once before, and kept his eyes on the sauté pan on the stove as she wandered, glass in hand, through the kitchen, and out into the great room beyond. A small gasp told him she'd found it.

He'd seen her eyeing the table longingly, running her hands over the smooth wood as though just imagining it in her rather cramped flat.

It was big; far bigger than the modern piece of stainless steel and glass that had been there before. Nestled before the artificial 'L' he'd made of his two sofa's, the almost black wood gleamed with many, many coats of polish and oil he'd applied since bringing it home.

The top was cleverly designed to fold away, so that the total space could be doubled when she brought work home. Underneath were two shallow drawers and a single shelf, and on the top, besides the assortment of remotes and keys and loose change and other junk that had always lived there, he'd placed an only slightly dented copy of _Hogwarts, A History_, remembering her showing him the ratty, and Spellotaped copy that she had read and re-read throughout her school days.

But even more than that, he'd placed a small clay sculpture of an otter. It wasn't very professional looking, and it had a thumbprint on its head where she'd tried to fix it after he'd tickled her that night, but it was a reminder of something special: a night of wandering around in the snowy streets of Muggle London, staring at a bunch of nutters wearing nothing but paint. Of wandering into far too many galleries to count, to stare at pictures of snowmen in a snowstorm, or works titled things like 'The Realities of a Sphere' and staring blankly at a canvas of three bright stripes instead, and nothing had really made any sense at all except that they'd shared something _more_ that night, and it had been the start of her distancing herself from him.

He was praying it meant it was the night she started wanting more from him than he'd offered to give.

She was holding the otter in her hands when he came up behind her, and he was relieved to see the awareness in her eyes, telling him she heard him – finally, and that it was somehow, miraculously the _right_ words.

Carefully, she put the sculpture back in its place, before turning to study him carefully while she worried the corner of her lip.

"It won't be like before." Somehow, though, the soft statement managed to be a rather sharp question, too, and he was momentarily aware of how vulnerable he'd made her with his fear of how much more they could be.

"'m going to do it right this time, Hermione. 'm afraid 'm going to get rather boyfriend-ish on you, with real dates and visits home that include fighting with me ma t' have ye in me own room, and quite possibly turning over the closet in the bedroom t' you when I finally wear yeh down and you agree to move in here."

"Prat," she said, but with no real rancour. He was fairly sure she was blushing, but she'd moved in close to him, tentatively settling in his arms, and he had no real desire to move her and find out.

He let out a breath, pulling her tighter; the scent of her skin was just about all he could breath for the moment, and he knew he was shaking a little bit.

"Don' ever let me do this again, girl. 'm stubborn, an' far too ignorant for me own good some days, but don' let me ever again come this close t' losing you, because I won't do it, no' without one hell of a fight."

"And you didn't fight this time?" There was asperity in her tone, but it was masking something softer, because he knew she hated for anyone to see her cry.

"Almost too late," he admitted softly.

Tomorrow would be plenty of time to think about the ring sitting in his sock drawer, anyway.

- Fini -


End file.
